Read Without a Trace for Free Online

began to shave in the shower by feel. He’d never been able to resist the damsel-in-distress routine. It had nearly gotten him killed in Santo Domingo. And nearly gotten him married in Stockholm. He wasn’t sure which would have been worse.
    It didn’t help a hell of a lot that this one was beautiful. Beautiful women had an edge, no matter what modern-day philosophy said about intellect. He could admire a mind, but—call him weak—he preferred it packaged well.
    By God, she was some package, and she’d dumped him into an international mess when all he wanted to do was wander around some ruins and go snorkeling.
    Hammer. Why in the hell did it have to be Hammer? He’d thought he was done with the half-baked, destructive group of renegades. It had taken him more than six months to infiltrate the organization at one of the base levels. He’d been working his way up, nicely, keeping a low profile with a Slavic accent, his hair dyed black and a lot of facial hair to complete the disguise.
    Ten miles out of Cairo, he’d made the mistake of discovering that the man he’d been working with on a small-arms deal had been making a few deals of his own on the side. Nothing to him, Trace thought now, bitterly. God knew he’d tried to tell the man he didn’t give a damn about his private ventures. But in a panic, the terrified entrepreneur had blown a hole in Trace’s chest and left him for dead rather than risk being reported.
    It was well-known that the man who wielded the power and money at Hammer had little patience for private enterprise.
    For nothing, Trace thought in disgust. The months of work, the careful planning, all for nothing becauseone half-crazed Egyptian had had a sweaty trigger finger.
    As a result, he’d brushed close enough to death to want to spend some time appreciating life. Get drunk, hold a willing woman, lie on white sand and look at blue skies. He’d even started thinking about seeing his family.
    Then she’d come along.
    Scientists. He rubbed a hand over his chin and, finding it smooth enough, let the water beat over his head. Scientists had been screwing up the order of things since Dr. Frankenstein’s day. Why couldn’t they just work on a cure for the common cold and leave the destruction of the world to the military?
    He turned off the taps, then reached for two undersized towels. Two phone calls the night before had given him enough information on Gillian Fitzpatrick to satisfy him. She was the genuine article, though he’d been wrong about the Swiss school. It was Irish nuns who’d taught her posture. She’d completed her education in Dublin, then gone on to work for her father until she’d accepted a position with the highly respected Random-Frye Institute in New York.
    She was single, though there was a link between her and a Dr. Arthur Steward, head of research and development at Random-Frye. Three months ago she’d spent six weeks in Ireland, on her brother’s farm.
    A busman’s holiday, Trace decided, if she had indeed worked on Horizon while she’d been there.
    There was no reason to disbelieve her, no reason to refuse to do as she asked. He’d find Flynn Fitzpatrick and the angel-faced little girl. And while he was at it, he’d find the men who’d killed Charlie. He’d get a hundred thousand for the first and a great deal of satisfaction for the second.
    The towel covered him with the same nonchalance as the briefs. He walked back into the bedroom to find Gillian shaking out what was left of her clothes.
    “Shower’s yours, Jill.”
    “Gillian,” she told him. Fifteen minutes alone had done a great deal to help her regain her composure. Since she was going to have to deal with Trace O’Hurley for some time, she’d decided to think of him as a tool rather than as a man.
    “Suit yourself.”
    “I usually do. I don’t have a toothbrush.”
    “Use mine.” He pulled open a drawer of the bureau. He caught her look in the mirror and grinned. “Sorry, Doc. I don’t